“I need a job.”
“Groton’s job?”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with Groton?” Clayton asked bluntly. “Is he finally wearing down?”
Corman decided not to lie. “He’s dying.”
Clayton didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He glanced about restlessly, his eyes shooting from one knot of people to the next. “That’s the real tragedy,” he said. “To think you know so fucking much, when you know absolutely nothing.” He looked back at Corman. “So, you’re tired of free-lancing?”
“I’m having a few problems,” Corman said.
“Like what?”
“Money.”
Clayton looked surprised. “Money? There’s just yourself, right?”
“I have a daughter.”
Clayton nodded. “Oh. Well, that puts a different spin on it.”
“Yeah.”
“With a kid, you need something steady.”
“It would help.”
They sat silently together for a few more minutes, then paid the check and walked out. The rain had stopped. Clayton kept his umbrella tightly beneath his arm as the two of them walked west, along the almost deserted crosstown streets.
“I’ll get a cab here,” Clayton said when they reached Fifth Avenue. “You need a lift?”
“I think I’ll walk,” Corman said.
Clayton stepped off the curb and lifted his arm as a wave of headlights rushed toward him from up the avenue. A taxi swerved out of the traffic, stopped and waited as Clayton got in. “Say hi to your kid,” he said quickly as he ducked inside.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
IT HAD BEGUN to rain again by the time Corman reached Seventh Avenue, only harder this time, with gusts of wind driving the thick gray drops against the lighted windows. At first, he tried to go on despite it, then gave up and ducked under the doorway of a small coffee shop to wait it out.
He’d expected it to trail off almost immediately, but for several minutes the rain continued to fall in long wet sheets. Across the street, he could see another small restaurant. It had a French name and a dark-blue awning. From time to time people moved in and out of it, huddled briefly under the awning, then either signaled for a cab or rushed down the street, shoulders hunched beneath their umbrellas.
Corman took out his camera, stepped back into the shadows slightly and began taking pictures. He was still taking them when a large, well-dressed man came out, a woman holding tightly to his arm. The man was laughing, his face was so bright and youthful that for an instant, Corman didn’t realize it was Edgar. When he did, he shrank back quickly, put away his camera and pulled his hat down over his face.
Edgar gave the woman a long, lingering kiss, then stepped out from under the awning and hailed a cab. The woman rushed over to it when it stopped, kissed Edgar again and got inside. Her hand shot out the window and waved back at him as the cab lurched forward and pulled away.
For a few seconds, Edgar lingered on the sidewalk, smiling sweetly as he watched the cab move away from him. Then he turned back toward Seventh Avenue, his eyes sweeping the opposite street until they stopped, hung like two frozen circles in the air.
Corman nodded but did not move toward him.
Edgar stood stiffly, his arms at his sides, the rain pelting him mercilessly. He seemed unable to move, as if his indiscretion had suddenly encased him solidly within a tomb of ice. For a few more seconds he stared into Corman’s face with a calculating intensity, then walked quickly across the street and joined him in the cramped doorway.
“No bullshit story, David,” he said determinedly. “You won’t get anything like that from me.”
Corman said nothing.
“I don’t know what shook me up there for a minute,” Edgar added. “I mean, it’s an old story, right?”
Corman waved his hand. “Forget it, Edgar.”
Edgar shook his head. “No, I don’t want to do that,” he said. “I don’t want to forget it.” He drew in a long, slow breath. “I’m tired of keeping everything to myself. It can kill you, doing that.” He paused a moment, as if to gather the whole story together in his mind, then went on. “I’ve known her for five years. It’s not just some little trinket on the side. It’s better than that.”
“Edgar … ”
He put up his hand. “Love makes it better, that’s what I’m telling you.” He seemed embarrassed by his own statement. “I’m no philosopher, not like Victor, with big ideas to justify every fucking thing he does. I don’t know if love makes it okay. I’m not saying that. But I know it makes it better.”
“You don’t have to … ”
“I know, I know,” Edgar said. “Believe me, I know. But to tell you the truth, I want to talk about this.” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. I really am.” He took Corman’s arm and eased him toward the door of the coffee shop. “Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
They took a small table in the back and ordered two coffees. Edgar glanced at the bowl of pickled green tomatoes, the place setting on its white paper napkin, the speckled Formica surface of the table itself while he searched for the words. Finally, he seemed to find them. “She’s a little chunky,” he said happily. “I guess you could tell that.”
Corman nodded.
Edgar laughed. “When it hits her, her whole body trembles, and there’s this long thing that sweeps over her. I don’t know what you’d call it. A peace. You know what I mean? A calm.”
His eyes were very bright, cheerful, childishly amazed. “And she starts to laugh, David, right out loud. It just comes over her, this uncontrollable laugh.” He shook his head. “Jesus Christ, it brings tears to my eyes.”
Corman pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Edgar.
Edgar hardly seemed to notice. “You know what she makes me feel?” he asked emphatically. “She makes me feel like I’m doing something good, comforting somebody, making her life better.” He lifted his hands upward. “How often do you get to do that in life? I mean, do it in a way that you see it right in front of you? How often does that happen?”
Corman didn’t answer, just let him talk.
Edgar stared him straight in the eye. “I can’t be with her on Christmas, you know? But, David, about once every two weeks or so with her, I’m goddamn Santa Claus.”
Corman smiled and lit his cigarette.
Edgar studied Corman’s face. “I hope you’re not laughing at me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Good,” Edgar said, a little doubtfully. “Because you’re not saying much.”
“Just listening,” Corman said.
The coffees came. Each of them took a quick sip and returned the cups to the table.
“Her name’s Patty,” Edgar said. “Patty Lister. She lives down in Tribeca. A little studio all done up in this sort of Victorian style, doilies everywhere, little framed pictures.”
Corman nodded again. He could see the place just as Edgar described it, a room out of time, from a lost age.
Edgar grabbed him by the wrists. “You know what it is, David?” he said. “This thing with Patty? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s fucking beautiful.” He laughed. “It’s fucking gorgeous. The sex? Let’s face it, strictly double-vanilla. But, Christ, it makes my heart sing.”
Corman tugged gently at his hands, but Edgar refused to release them. Instead, he tightened his grip.
